Built on Sand

Full Version: Irony comes calling
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Mateo stared out the window. The weather was dreary, a light drizzle of snow-rain from an otherwise unremarkable grey sky.

He wasn't entirely happy. He had called the police on a rather low-priority thing, and left his name and address with the nice cop on the other end.. Someone had tried to break into his house. Despite the warning signs around the house, stating the presence of cameras, both visible and hidden, and the car out on the driveway that said "Salazar's Security Solutions", in bold typeface even, someone had been dumb enough to try it anyway. Try, as they hadn't been successful. Scared away over ... well, it could have been anything really. The more time one had to waste on a locked door, the more ones nerves would play up.

There had been a string of break-ins across the neighbourhood these last few weeks. Home electronics were obvious targets, and some of the people had heirlooms stolen. That was what had prompted Mateo to call the cops, actually. Personal items had always been a no-no, even to his old self. And he was sure he had some footage of this person, or persons. All his visible cameras had been wrecked, or turned away, but the ones filming out of the house, over the backyard, had been on the entire time. Motion activated, HD and with light-intensification tech. Top of the line, obviously. And so, he had called the cops, himself fully aware of the irony of the matter.

He had made sure nobody had messed around in the backyard today, preserving as much evidence there as the weather would allow. He hadn't even looked at the footage too much, just verifying that he had caught something. He had. Anything else, well that was not his job. He was waiting for the ones who's job it was, though. He had the Latin station selected on his stereo, and a few new locks spread out on the table, ready for him to test. But he couldn't really get himself into it. Not today. Daisy, his old pitbull, was laying lazily next to him on the couch, occasionally looking up to see what her owner was up to, but apparently it wasn't enough to get her to get up.
The county Sheriff's department was spread somewhat thin. One Sheriff, four deputies, they took care of most of the town's local matters, working closely with the State Police to hand off matters they couldn't take care of. But apparently they could take care of this, because the white and gold car came pulling up in a reasonably timely fashion.

Justine Carter emerged in full uniform. There was a burst of some sort of notification on her radio, which she gently turned down as she walked up. Despite having been the very individual to arrest Mateo Salazar in the past her expression was nevertheless polite and professional. Then again, she nearly always was; she tended to be both even in the interrogation room.

Was she uncomfortable with this? Did she feel bad over her erstwhile wrongful arrest? Anyone who looked at her would be rather hard-pressed to tell.

She pushed up her glasses absently, eyes roaming over his security set-up. Then she rang the doorbell and stepped back, giving the door some space.
Mateo startled out of his thoughts a little when the doorbell rang and Daisy let out a very lazy (and unconvincing) bark. He got up, waked over to the front door and saw the familiar blue of a police uniform, and the face of the sheriff herself even. Noticing that the weather was not getting any better, he opened the door without much delay. Thanks for coming, please come in. Weather's not getting any better, it seems. Mateo spoke with only a hint of his Hispanic heritage, having taken on the local accent rather thoroughly (unsurprisingly, as he was, after all, a local) He stepped back enough to let her get inside, before closing the door.

DIdin't expect you to look into an attempted burglary yourself, Sheriff Carter. But I can't say I'm not happy with it. He gestured towards the living room. In it were a rather large couch, two comfortable looking seats and a coffee table, all of which seemed to have belonged to a set of things at one time, but none to the same one. The back wall was completely taken up by a full bookcase, and there was a flat-screen TV on the wall across from the couch, surrounded by pictures. On the table was a small assortment of locks, new, and some still even in their packaging. Mateo sweeped them in a small box, along with what looked an awful lot like a set of locksmithing tools.

Could I offer you a coffee? Or are you personally looking into this because it is so busy at the moment? It was quite clear that this man, if he even held a grudge towards her, or her profession, it wasn't showing at all. More likely, though, was that he really didn't hold one. If so, I'll stop wasting your time, and we can co straight to the matter, of course. He shooed the old pitbull off the end of the couch, who only responded after the second time, then took position on a throw-rug in front of it where she seemingly went back to napping.